


Asked and Answered

by ColdColdHeart



Series: The Key to Oslov [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Slash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Exchange, Power Play, References to Prostitution, Teabagging, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart
Summary: You should call his bluff, love. Personally, I don’t think he can make you scream.Besha has many skills, but there’s one he hasn’t demonstrated to his new friends/allies yet. Tilrey asks him to and gets a more detailed demo than he bargained for. Studying legislation isn’t supposed to be this fun.





	Asked and Answered

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between "Tea and Other Stuff" and "The Trip to Thurskein" and is sort of setting up another story where Gersha and Tilrey finally deal with Besha's wife and her well-justified suspicions about their influence on Besha. That story will be half plot, half porn. This one's pretty much all the latter. ;) Thanks for reading!

“There’s something I’d like to ask you, Fir,” said Tilrey, “but I’m a bit concerned I might offend you.”

Besha grimaced. “Nothing offends me. Worry about offending old Dour Face over there.”

Gersha did look dour as he said, “We’re supposed to be studying the text of this bill, Besha, and you can’t seem to do anything but _touch_ him.”

In the fifteen minutes Besha had been in their apartment this evening, he’d shown himself remarkably unready to study legislation. First he’d stroked Tilrey’s hand while Tilrey was trying to serve the tea; then he’d inched closer and nudged Tilrey’s calf with his toe. Then he’d turned to Gersha and said, “I’ve been working nine hours and I’m braindead. Could I maybe have a quick taste of him? A kiss?”

“No!” Then Gersha had glanced at Tilrey, flushing guiltily, and backtracked. “I mean, I don’t own him. If you want a ‘taste,’ ask _him_.”

“You can kiss me, Fir,” Tilrey had said, to stop the bickering. And Besha, needing no further invitation, had dived on him and kissed him in a way that incorporated so much skillful, eager use of tongue and full-body rubbing that it threatened to derail Tilrey’s concentration for good.

Gersha had eventually put an end to this by saying loudly, “Besha, don’t you have to be at the Lounge with your wife in under an hour?” Whereupon Besha separated himself from Tilrey and returned glumly to his tablet.

But that kiss had set Tilrey thinking. Not about the Notification bill—he knew it practically by heart. Anyway, Besha didn’t care about this or any other bill. He cared about power, which meant Tilrey had to care about it, too. How much did they have over Besha? Where were his limits?

“Here’s what I’ve been wondering,” he said now, looking straight into Besha’s narrowed, silver-blue eyes, “Are you good at sucking cock, Fir?”

The eyes popped open. Besha straightened out of his slouch. “Verán would smack you silly for a question like that.”

“I thought nothing offended you, Fir.”

“I didn’t anticipate that. And what exactly has got you wondering about my cock-sucking skills all of a sudden?”

“I happened to remember, Fir, a story you told me about your school days. You mentioned sucking off another boy. That made me wonder, since you seem to know how to use your tongue in a kiss. . . well, how good are you when you take it elsewhere?”

“Better than you’ll ever know,” Besha said in a way that closed off further discussion.

“It doesn’t seem like an untoward question.” Gersha spoke with his usual earnestness, but there was a sly glint in his eye. “Tilrey’s pleasured you with his mouth so many times. Last time we were here, he fucked you, and you seemed to enjoy that. How is him asking for your mouth over the line?”

“I didn’t _ask_ for it,” Tilrey pointed out.

Besha ignored him, addressing Gersha: “It’s totally different. When he sucks me off, when he fucks me, he does the work. As he ought, because until somebody elects _him_ Councillor, and he has an _actual_ vote, it’s his job to pour the tea and make us happy. Despite what you seem to want to believe these days, dear Gersha, the three of us are not equal. It’s not my job to pleasure him—though if it were, I’d wipe that insolent grin off his face and make him scream for me, because I’m _very_ good . . . what’s so funny? Why are you both grinning like idiots? It’s a hypothetical.”

Gersha said to Tilrey, “You should call his bluff, love. Personally, I don’t think he can make you scream.”

“I imagine he could, but in thirty-eight minutes?” Tilrey said innocently. “That would take some skill.”

“Gersha!” Besha hugged a pillow to his chest, pouting like a schoolboy. “You’re supposed to be the mature one. Don’t you two gang up on me.”

Instead of getting the discussion back on track, Gersha relaxed into the cushions, that twinkle in his eye again. “No one’s ganging up on you, Besha. Maybe you should stop making promises you can’t keep.”

“What? I didn’t promise anybody anything.” Besha’s eyes were aglow with anger or something else; his whole slight body radiated excitement. “If the boy wants me to suck him off, he should just say so.”

Tilrey returned his gaze to his print-out. “I was only curious, Fir. It’s too late for that now.”

“What, lad, are you made of stone? I could make you come in a minute if I wanted to—though taking longer would be more fun.”

“This is what I mean about promises,” Gersha said, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “A lot of boasting without any follow-through.”

Besha’s eyes darted between them, as if he were trying to gauge just how serious they were. “Fine,” he said then, sliding across the couch to Tilrey. “Challenge accepted, but I’m in control here, and I take as long as _I_ want. Hands on the couch. Lean back and close your eyes.”

Gersha made a small sound of disbelief, while Tilrey, accustomed to obeying without question, shut his eyes and positioned himself as directed.

This might be a bore; many Upstarts thought they were better at sucking cock than they actually were. But Besha’s kisses were deft and aggressive, and the very thought of that tongue elsewhere sent blood rushing to Tilrey’s groin.

Besha straddled Tilrey and lowered himself into his lap, his breath hot on Tilrey’s face. “You’re so fucking cheeky today,” he whispered, tipping Tilrey’s head back. “It’s adorable, but you need to know who’s in charge. No talking!” he added, as Tilrey opened his mouth to reassure him that the Fir, of course, was in charge of everything.

A moment later, talking was out of the question, because his mouth was full of Besha’s tongue, and Besha’s fingers were tugging at his hair, and Besha’s bony knee was wedging itself against his hardening cock.

Tilrey fought the impulse to reach for Besha and pull him closer, as he would have done with Gersha. He wanted that ass rocking back and forth on him, just at the right spot; he wanted to open Besha’s tunic and grab him by the waist, fingers on bare skin, and take control of the motion. But he’d agreed to the rules.

His fingers clawed the upholstery as the kiss took his breath away. But the next thing he knew, Besha was gone again, leaving a teasing peck on his forehead.

“Oh no,” he said, sliding off Tilrey, removing the tantalizing pressure of his knee. “Not yet.”

A protest rose in Tilrey’s throat, but he didn’t release it. He had long practice in self-mastery and stoicism, trained by Linnett and bitter experience. Besha’s erotic teasing was amateur hour.

Scream? _Please_. He almost never had a reaction he hadn’t been trained or consciously permitted himself to have, and his occasional involuntary reactions had all happened with Gersha.

He waited, still tasting the hot urgency of Besha’s mouth. Usually when he was excited, the little Councillor was a sharp-fanged animal, all nipping eagerness and utter lack of compunction. This coy side of him was new.

Fingertips skimmed their way up Tilrey’s calves and circled his kneecaps. It tickled a little, and he drew in his breath, trying to ignore the aching stiffness between his legs.

Now that light touch ran the length of his thighs, moving outside to inside. He parted them, and Besha said, “Quite the little slut, aren’t you?”

As he spoke, he pressed the heel of his hand down on Tilrey’s crotch, hard. Tilrey gasped, but Besha had already removed the pressure, leaving the need for release more sweetly agonizing than before.

“That’s not fair, Fir,” Tilrey said, feeling Besha’s shoulders slip between his spread knees. “I don’t play games like that.”

The Councillor crowed in his most juvenile way. “Well, I’m not you. You don’t appear to have a gag reflex. I make up for my lack of sheer depth with other tactics. Watch closely, Gersha—maybe you can learn something.”

In the darkness behind his eyelids, Tilrey had started feeling like he was marooned with Besha in a pocket universe. Now he remembered Gersha was right there, sneaking glances at them, maybe even staring. Was he feeling left out?

“Gersha’s very good, actually,” Tilrey said. “He learned from the best. I remember you saying so yourself, F— _nurgh_!”

Besha’s hand had snuck under his jerkin and taken a firm, certain hold. The deft fingers navigated Tilrey’s trousers and briefs with ease, and it took no time at all for them to make direct contact with Tilrey’s hot flesh, sending a needy shiver up his spine.

What Besha did next was out of Tilrey’s standard playbook—palm to the shaft, gripping and pumping. But Tilrey hadn’t anticipated the sudden rush of sensation, and he writhed, pushing into the touch.

“You like that?” Then of course, maddeningly, Besha released him again. “I think you’re too dressed,” he said, perching himself on Tilrey’s knee.

Tilrey held as still as he could, resisting the urge to arch up and rub his straining cock against Besha’s flank. Nimble fingers reached for the neck of his jerkin and undid one button, then the next, grazing the sensitive skin of his throat.

He was not going to show how badly he needed this. He was _not._

“Turn a little—where does this fucking thing fasten?” Besha’s hands were at his waist now. “I liked you in tunics better.”

Tilrey heard the zip and felt cold air against his skin. All at once, he lost control and rutted up against Besha, who gave his cock a stinging smack and said, “Aha, you _are_ human.”

It was too much pain and pleasure at once. Tilrey’s nails dug into the couch fabric as he struggled with his urge to grab Besha and just make it all go _faster_. “You weren’t sure?” he said between his teeth.

Besha laughed, still balanced on his knee. “If I were doing this to Gersha, he’d have been moaning and begging for the past five minutes.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Gersha scolded, somewhere in the formless dark.

It was that voice—gently irritated, fussy, familiar—that forced a groan from Tilrey’s throat at last. All the blood in his body seemed to be pooling in his groin.

But Besha’s too-active fingers were no longer there; they were creeping under Tilrey’s loosened jerkin and shirt. One hand stroked up his chest, pinched a nipple. The other teased under the waistband of his trousers and traced the groove of his hip.

Another quick pinch—this one down below—and Tilrey bucked so helplessly that Besha slipped right off his knee, cackling.

“I think you may be a demon,” Tilrey said unsteadily, “one of those ones the feudals thought lived in the woods and ate children. Would you please _touch_ me already?”

“I am touching you.” Besha straddled him again. “I’m worshipping your lovely form in the leisurely way it deserves.” He knotted his hands in Tilrey’s hair hard enough to sting, then kissed Tilrey’s right and left eyelid in turn. “Is this better?”

“No, you know what I fucking m—” But the words were lost to another of those sharp-toothed, hungry kisses.

Besha was panting now, too, rubbing his rough cheek against Tilrey’s till the friction burned. As his tongue darted between Tilrey’s lips, he closed his fingers on Tilrey’s cock again, and Tilrey moaned into his mouth.

The sound was so abject it made his cheeks flush. Besha laughed and slid off him again. “I think it’s finally time.”

His fingers like iron on Tilrey’s shaft, he sank to his knees. “I hope you appreciate what you’re getting.”

Besha still wore his sandy-blond hair like a schoolboy, a lank forelock slipping over his left eye. When he bent, that forelock grazed the head of Tilrey’s cock, every contact a tiny electric charge. Tilrey just managed to stifle the shout before it emerged.

He was _not_ going to fucking scream.

And Besha _still_ didn’t use his mouth—or not the way Tilrey desperately needed him to. “Gersha,” he said, “could you come and give me a hand? Both hands, actually.”

“What for?” Gersha’s voice was closer now, sending a pleasant shiver up Tilrey’s spine. “You look like you’re doing fine by yourself.”

A moment of silence, as if Besha were gesturing. Tilrey felt more than heard his lover slip behind the couch.

“Take his hands,” Besha said, prying Tilrey’s fingers from their death grip on the cushions. “Hold them behind his head. I don’t want him trying to run the show in the last act.”

Tilrey wrenched his hands free of Besha’s—he’d had about enough of being twisted like a puppet. But when Gersha’s slender, tentative fingers closed around his wrists, another shudder splintered him. He let Gersha bend his elbows and pinion his hands gently at his nape.

Below them, Besha’s breathing caught and sped up. “Verdant hells, you’re beautiful. Both of you.”

Gersha’s thumbs moved over Tilrey’s palms, massaging them reassuringly. “Are you going to get to it, Besha? Eighteen minutes.”

Had so little time passed? It didn’t seem possible.

Besha laughed, and his iron grip captured the base of Tilrey’s cock, making everything else disappear. An electric shiver of hair, and then a wet, probing softness swabbed the tip, making Tilrey squirm and buck again.

His hands were fists, the nails denting Gersha’s skin. If he hadn’t been restrained, he’d have grabbed Besha’s stupid forelock and jammed himself into the Councillor’s throat as deep as he could go, gag reflex be damned.

Besha’s tongue was working now, but not hard enough—a coy, darting contact, barely even tasting him. When it withdrew, Tilrey’s hips strained toward it.

Expecting more cruel teasing, he was surprised when the warm wetness returned and lapped at his balls, drawing a line of sensation so intense it bordered on pain. He could almost see the pain-pleasure in his head, a flamelike dancing form, as the wetness widened to engulf half the sac, and the tongue rolled his right testicle back and forth and— _fuck!_ He was moaning again.

All business now, Besha transferred his attention to the left testicle, each centimeter of skin going red-hot and so tight that only Tilrey’s rigid stillness kept the feeling from tipping over into agony.

“Demon,” he hissed between his teeth as Besha moved away again—then remembered himself and loosened his grip on Gersha’s hands. “Am I hurting you, love?”

Gersha was breathing hard, too, each exhale a faint seething in Tilrey’s ears. “A little. No, I’m fine. But . . .”

Besha snickered. “Sorry, Gersha. I don’t have time to do you, too.”

Then, without warning, his hot mouth opened and slid over the head of Tilrey’s cock, down his shaft. In a distant, professional way, Tilrey noted that Besha was keeping his lips tight and his throat open, sealing the organ in snugly while keeping a hand on the base to limit his depth.

Besha’s tongue started moving, and further analysis was impossible. Tilrey was only dimly aware of his hips straining, his back arching, his fingers clawing at poor Gersha’s hands again.

He’d had good head before. Gersha could undo him with sheer tenderness and generosity and abandon. Linnett, back when he was teaching Tilrey the techniques, was surprisingly good, and he’d brought Tilrey to the Sanctioned Brothel for a lesson from a whore who was even better.

This was different. He didn’t know if Besha’s technique was good, and he didn’t care. Reduced to desperation by the teasing, he just wanted more—more strong pressure of the hand, more tight seal of the mouth, more forceful stroking and clever flicking of the tongue.

Every inch of him was alive and itching with need, waves of sensation radiating outward from his groin. He wanted to hold Besha’s head and thrust into that mouth so badly he could taste it. He imagined with painful clarity how Besha’s hair would tease the insides of his fingers. He felt the depth of that moist, welcoming throat as if he were in control.

Yet he wasn’t. Gersha’s fingers clamped him like handcuffs. Besha’s elbow held his hips down as his hand imprisoned Tilrey’s cock, crushing it, setting every nerve on fire with pleasure.

With an upward lurch of his hips, breaking through Besha’s hold, Tilrey slipped deeper into that tight wet passage. It closed spasmodically, increasing the already-unbearable pressure. That red shape danced hectically in the dark again, and as Gersha’s thumb stroked across his right palm, he came in a great spasm that seemed to last forever.

When he became aware of his surroundings again, he was slumped on Gersha’s lap, bare feet on the couch, gentle fingers in his hair. Through the haze of drowsy satisfaction, he heard them arguing in low, intimate voices:

“That wasn’t even close to a scream. Maybe a shout.”

“There was a distinctly shrill quality.”

“An agonized shout, then. I’ve never heard him actually scream.”

“Because you never _made_ him scream.”

Tilrey tried to sit up, but even opening his eyes was too much effort. He reached out blindly, and one of Gersha’s hands laced itself through his.

“No need to be smug, Besha,” he managed to say. “Fine. I guess you aren’t too bad.”

“Asked and answered,” Besha said, sounding smugger than ever.

“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” Gersha asked. “Bothering someone else?”

“Oh, you like it when I bother you. You had a bulge in your trousers the whole time, sweetheart—yes, I noticed. Now, that was more fun than discussing an education bill, wasn’t it?”

The cushion depressed a little as Besha’s weight settled beside Tilrey. A finger tickled his exposed collarbone, then snuck across his lips. “I really wrecked him, didn’t I?”

Tilrey opened his mouth and suckled Besha’s index finger for a few seconds, just to remind the Councillor who was actually the best at that. “You did. But,” he said, feeling his mind clear a bit, “you’re still going to vote for Lunkoldd’s bill at the session on sixth-day.”

Not a question. No “Fir.” He’d given up control, and now he was taking it back. Or had Besha surrendered his Upstart authority to Tilrey the moment he accepted the challenge? Maybe it didn’t matter. They were on a level now.

Besha groaned and stroked Tilrey’s jaw with his wet finger. “My wife’s gonna kill me.”

“Then we’ll just have to explain your change of heart to your wife.” Tilrey knew he should be looking Besha in the eye, gauging the Councillor’s cooperativeness, but his body insisted he yield to the feeling of delicious fatigue that was pressing him into Gersha’s lap. “We’ll figure it all out. Later.” He had trouble forming the last word.

“Yeah, I think that’ll have to wait.” Besha’s finger traced the arch of Tilrey’s brow, the sensation so delicate it raised shivers. Gersha’s palm was still warm and a little damp against Tilrey’s, the other hand in his hair, and for the first time in his life Tilrey welcomed the sensation of two men touching him at once, sharing him, knowing him to his core.

He could get used to this.

“I can’t believe Verán used to say you weren’t responsive,” Besha went on. “You’re like a secret room with five locks on the door, but once you get in there, it’s like the Sanctioned Brothel, all steam baths and silk pillows and moaning and screaming and—”

“I did _not_ scream,” Tilrey managed to say just before he fell asleep.


End file.
